i don't post here much anymore but i do catalog when i write for a new fandom. hello, you've all taken over my life -sobs over heine-
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i.
He pins her to the ground, the barrel of one of his guns pressed to her jugular, wine-red eyes wide and sharp and filled with life. He's not one to lose his breath, but at that moment, he's sucking in air through his teeth—watching the way Fuyumine Naoto glares up at him with cerulean eyes, lips pressed into a thin line and distaste written across her face.
ii.
Badou snorts at the way this obnoxious little sparring sessions have become a form of habit. From once a week, to twice, to thrice, to every day to twice a day until it becomes quite sickening to fuckin' watch.
What a goddamn cheap way of flirting.
iii.
Naoto never wins and it makes Heine grin.
Winning doesn't mean much to him and, from his lack of ability to stay down for long, has lost its meaning. But the mere fact of knowing Naoto doesn't appreciate the way he pins her, one of his larger hands holding onto both her wrists, knees bent into a kneel, resting on either side of her legs and caging her under his body—it wakes up something inside him.
He lets her see his grin, let's out a soft, sharp chuckle at the way she tries to buck him off her.
iv.
She only grows angrier every single time.
It's always the same outcome and she knows the only reason why every bullet he shoots at her miss is because it's his intention. Has he grown soft?
Heine, with his wine colored eyes, his silver-white hair and pale skin. The Dog with sharp teeth and a sharper tongue, all dark looks and darker intentions—soft?
Impossible.
Naoto arches her back and makes to throw him off her. Her hips knock against his and there's a sharp intake of breath but she's not sure if it comes from him or herself.
He's off her before it can register.
v.
She does it again the next time they engage in battle.
Heine doesn't fucking get it. Not the battle, the sparring—those happen because she never shuts up and he can only have so much patience before he's throwing bait.
He's talking about the fucking hip grinding. Why the hell does she keep doing it? It's not like she fucking knows it brings some kind of adrenaline rush into his system far more different than the one he's used to, almost up to par with the never ending tug and pull and itch at the back of his neck.
She does it again and Heine jumps off her like she's fire, swallowing that pathetic groan and walking away without looking back.
vi.
If she pins him this time it's because he's let her.
He won't say it aloud but it's the truth. He lets the pebbles that liter the broken concrete dig into his back, noticing the way she has to pin his arms down with a hand on either of his wrists and she's practically sitting on top of him.
Rip 'er apart, the mutt in the back of his head demands.
Instead, Heine grinds against her and watches the way she reacts the same way as he does.
vii.
"We're not really fighting," he assures Nill when she stares at him with bottle-green eyes. "It's sparring. You know, to keep each other on our toes."
She furrows her brow.
Heine sighs, "If I wanted to kill her, I would've already."
Nill takes his hand in hers, standing up on the top of the pews and smiling down at him.
"Yes," he murmurs, following her, "I know she's your friend."
viii.
It's gotten to the point where they don't run upon the jolt of the first friction. In the back of the Church, more secluded, they battle for who finishes on top, who gets to begin the new wave of electricity, grinding up and rotating their hips in a circular motion.
The day before, Naoto had let out something like a breathy moan.
It'd served as a new sort of nightmare for Heine, repeating itself in his head until the demon inside began to howl with mockery and pleasure.
This time, when she hovers above him, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted, Heine fingers the material of her shirt, his eyes on hers.
ix.
"I don't even know when he stopped doing that fucking thing he does when women touch him. You know, when he crumbles to the floor and starts hissing like a little bitch?"
Nill puffs her cheeks up, sure that it's because Naoto is such a nice person.
x.
He bends forward, blinking his hair out of his eyes and observing the way she tenses as she tries to figure out his motives. Heine's breath is hot against the exposed skin of her chest but his attention is on her scars.
The pink tissues peek out from the dip of her shirt, distractive and almost something like attractive. Heine doesn't have time for a pretty face or whatever else Badou always goes on about when he talks about his perfect match.
Heine likes scars.
The proof of being unraveled, torn apart and haphazardly put back together. He doesn't have any scars, despite getting wounded as much as he breathed.
That is, of course, if he doesn't take into account the basic definition of Heine Rammsteiner, the thick scars that start right under the edge of his collar and run down to rest on either side of the knob at the base of his neck.
Still, Heine's attention is on the scars that peek out from Naoto's shirt, pausing their heated grinding in favor of dipping down closer.
He runs his lips against them, relishing on the feeling. It's only when he listens to her breathing hitch that he parts his lips, traces them with the tip of tongue and listens.
xi.
The following day, Naoto is quick and precise. She pins him from behind, one hand pulling his arm back.
"The fuck," he hisses but then his attention quickly settles into stifling a groan when he feels her tongue against the most sensitive spot on his body.
She starts off with tracing her lips against the cool metal plate, her tongue peeking out to lick his scars, lightly sucking on them and making Heine see the closest thing he's ever come to imagining stars to look like.
Inside his head, the mutt groans and howls.
xii.
It's the most intense they've gotten in a fight, sweat dribbling down the side of their faces, Naoto's hair sticking to her cheeks and Heine's messy spikes drooping down.
It's when she leaps and wraps her legs around him that their lips crash against each other, Heine's hands finding the back of her bare thighs.
It's everything and nothing—clumsy, teeth-knocking, chaste and fervent. Her lips are dry and his are cracked yet they kiss with something like an urgency, raw and demanding and when they pull away, Heine tugs at her lower lip with his teeth, fighting the voice inside his head that tells him to bite harder.
xiii.
And when they finally fuck, it's in the middle of the night, in his apartment where she's sought him out to. They don't speak—they never say a goddamn thing to each other, but he pulls her in anyway, kisses her like it could possibly mean something and groans against her mouth when she grinds against him.
Who loses what first doesn't even register before he's pinned to the ground of his pathetically small living room, a naked Naoto straddling him, connected at the hips.
She moves to the responses of her body, circulating her hips and digging her nails into his chest. Her movements are jerky and hesitant and it's not until the friction begins to build and pool somewhere she can't pinpoint that she starts lifting herself off him just to slam back down.
He seems to like it, by the way his arms shoot out, hands finding her hips, thumbs pressing against her hipbones with a bittersweet ache.
Naoto closes her eyes, lips parted as soft, breathy moans escape through her parted lips. She doesn't realize when Heine's flipped them over, the rug burning her back as he pulls her close, one leg over his shoulder and the other wrapped around his hips.
His movements are almost desperate—fast, hard, raw.
She rolls her eyes back, her back arching and her hips lifting up to meet his every thrust. It's not until she feels his tongue against her scars that she loses it, the sensation of him pushing into her mixed with the way his tongue ran from the start of her scar, under her breasts, and up to the end at the top of her chest—it was too much.
And when they both finish, when she finds her release and all but screams it into her hands and he stifles it against her scars, they lie on the ground, catching their breath and promising each other that this changes nothing.
xiv.
They're glaring at each other behind him, their paces slow and their hands inching near their weapons. Badou rolls his eye skyward, exhaling the smoke of his cig through his nose as he decides everyone is fucking stupid and there's not enough cigarettes in the world to help him live with it.